A Concluding Touch of the Blues
by Silly Mamma
Summary: Hank and Rogue deal with the consequences of the days after the night before.


### For VangieKitty, who said I could.

#### Not mine. Not nearly mine. Not even close to being mine.

* * *

  
  
This story, although standing on its own, eminates from the universe of Vangie Kitty's imagining. In her world, Hank and Rogue have become close friends based on their love of reading and a certain exciting chemistry between them. In my story, the pair must deal with the consequences of how their relationship has grown. A relationship,I might add, that has broken new ground, just before this story begins.   
  


* * *

  
  
As Rogue finished the touching and absorbing last page of "Dear Enemy", tears dripped down her cheeks. Absently, she sighed and scratched her healing arm. And scratched. And scratched. Gracious, she thought to herself, I must be developing a skin condition. A skin condition, she added to herself, that seemed to be spreading. Her feet...itched.

Carefully placing her book on the nightstand, she stood and walked to the window. Outside in the warm spring sun, young mutants frolicked on the lawn. Some ran around in an ultimate Frisbee game while others played chess or caught up on homework. The sight of the youngsters always brought a smile to her face. This time was no exception. She felt at peace with the world, except for the annoying itch that wouldn't go away. 

As she brought up her arm, to devote attention and particular technique to the worst of the irritation, the sunlight bathed her arm in light. "That's odd," she thought to herself. The hair on her arm looked...blue. A very light, fine shade of blue, but blue nonetheless. Rogue cursed. "I have got to see Hank".

* * *

  
"Explain this," Rogue demanded, holding out her arm.

Hank looked at the arm, looked at Rogue and said, "An arm, I believe, attached at present to a young and attractive female." He paused. "Or am I missing something?" He smiled quizzically. 

"Look at the hair, Hank, the hair!" Rogue sighed in exasperation. 

Hank took his spectacles from his desk and placed them on his nose. He peered closely. Only a sharp inhalation of breath gave away his surprise. "Fascinating," he said. "Not what I would have expected at all." 

"Explain it, Hank," Rogue demanded. "Why is my arm hair blue?"

"Would you mind if I conducted a slightly more thorough physical before arriving at a diagnosis?"

Rogue thought for a second and then nodded. "Okay," she agreed.

"Would you please, um..." Hank paused, slightly embarrassed.

"Disrobe?" Rogue asked, wryly. "Isn't that what got me into this mess in the first place?"

"Let us not jump to conclusions, my dear, until after we've examined all of the facts." Hank smiled slightly as he proceeded to examine all of Rogue's facts.

"Well?" she asked as he began putting away his medical supplies. "What's going on?"

"I'm not sure," he replied. "And I won't know until this blood sample comes back from the lab, but I'm ready to make a tentative guess. I surmise that our, ahem, encounter after your, ah, accident might have produced, um, unexpected side effects."

Rogue was not happy. "I need a straight answer, blue boy. If you please?" 

"Rogue, do you recall how I acquired this unexpected physical condition of mine?"

"I remember something about an experiment gone wrong... And some sort of formula."

"Exactly. After examining you and conducting preliminary tests, I now have reason to believe that the formula remained active in my system rather than being absorbed and dispelled as I had originally thought."

"So what does that have to do with me?"

"Well," Hank said, "I believe that during our time together, when our precautions were tested to their limits, they must have failed..."

"You don't mean..." she gasped.

"Yes, Rogue, and I must have passed my condition on to you. It's fascinating, actually. I never even considered the possibility that it could be communicable."

"No!" Rogue cried, scratching at her arm. "You can't mean it!"

"I'm afraid so," Hank replied. "Of course, I cannot be sure yet, but I believe you've come down with, if not a bad case, then a touch of the blues."

* * *

  
Logan sat in a large, comfortable brown recliner gazing intently at the prose streaming before his eyes in a thumb-worn copy of "Summer of My German Soldier", occasionally turning pages. He looked up as Rogue entered the library and began to search the shelves for a good book. 

"Hi," he grunted. "I'm enjoying this book you recommended. At least, so far. No sad endings, right?"

"Of course not, sugar." Rogue assured him. "I'd never recommend a tear jerker to you, knowing how you...well, how you react to those sort of stories."

"Good." Logan returned to reading for a few seconds before looking up again. He cocked his head as he gave her a thorough visual examination. "Have you been working out in the gym, darlin'?"

The question took Rogue by surprise. "What makes you say that?" she asked.

"You're looking good. Buff. Very Buff."

Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean by 'buff', Logan?"

"You know. Muscular. You're looking really muscular." Logan paused. "I like it. Looks good on you."

Rogue peered at Logan thoughtfully for a second, before grabbing a book at random and heading out. "Hmph. Parnassus on Wheels," Logan observed to himself. "She's read that one a thousand times." He shrugged. "She must have something else on her mind."   
  
  
Rogue raced back to her room, slamming shut the door and locking it. The full length mirror remained attached to the back of the door, despite this abuse. In it, she looked at herself carefully. Up and down. Was anything different? It was hard to tell with her arm still in a sling, especially as she'd been wearing loose fitting clothes to accomodate it. Carefully she stripped down to her skivies and studied herself back and front.

Had anything changed? Well, the blue hair on her legs was one giveaway. Despite the best efforts of dozens of disposable pink razors, a thick blue fuzz had taken up permanent residence on her calves. A finer, lighter blue outlined her torso but, to date, was far less noticable. Her shoulders, though, they did seem broader. More muscular. A greek chorus of voices chattered in her head as a vast array of absorbed personalities weighed in with their thoughts.

The majority opinion was clear. She certainly looked more muscular than she or any of the voices remembered. Time, she thought, for a test. Rogue walked over to her bureau and opened a drawer. After a few seconds, she found one of her favorite shirts. A deep necked, long-sleeved number, it always flattered her figure. Carefully, she tugged it over her head, slipping her good arm through the sleeve.

Rogue sighed. And in her head, the others sighed as well. The end of the sleeve stopped an inch or so below her elbow. Her shoulders filled out the top in ways that a 1980's-minded Liz Clairborne could only imagine in her wildest dreams.

The next step took more courage. She opened her mouth and grimaced. As she feared, her canine teeth were more pronounced than they had any right to be. And the bottom canines...

Oh those bottom canines...

The bottom canines would soon be poking out of her mouth on a regular basis whether she liked it or not.

"You liked the look on Hank," one of the voices reminded her. In this state, Rogue couldn't tell if that voice eminated from part of her subconcious or from a member of her psychic entourage.

"But that's on him. Not on me," she replied out loud. Her voice echoed in the room.

Time to face facts. Whether she liked it or not, she was changing. And, pretty soon, people were going to notice. Of course, Logan, with his keen senses would have to have been the first. She understood that, had anticipated that. But the others. That was going to be hard.

For years, she'd been able to pass. She could go into any crowd in any city and pass unnoticed. So long as she covered up like a nun, didn't touch anyone, she could belong, be part of the norm. Even with the hair, no one would point to her and say "Mutant". 

Mutant. The word hung in her head.

No more hiding.

She wouldn't be able to 'pass' for long.

And she didn't know if she'd be able to handle it.

Hank does, she thought, hopelessly. But I'm not Hank.

  


* * *

  
Hank's fork continued making abstract shapes in his mashed potatoes and peas as his thoughts wandered. As he sat at the lunch table, surrounded by his fellow X-Men, his eyes lingered on Rogue. She sat a few tables away, talking intently with Ororo. As Logan and Bobby's book-related chatter wafted around his ears, he found himself studying Rogue closely.

There was something about her. Something different. Of course, he told himself, you know what's different. But there was something different about the difference, if you followed what he meant. Hank decided that even he did not follow what he, himself, meant. He thought further and after a while he began to realize that the difference that was different was the sameness. Fortunately, being Hank, he was finally able to understand why this was important.

Mutants, he mused, were all...different. Each of them with a special gift, a unique talent. But he and Rogue, they were becoming the same. A matched set, as it were. Were there any other mutants who...matched? 

He thought of some of the odder siblings like Scott and Alex and those twins from Alpha-flight. So, indeed, the scenario was not unique. But those siblings, their situation differed. They grew up with shared gifts. He and Rogue did not commence their lives with a common factor. Instead, they had that factor thrust onto them, later in life.

They shared that difference. An outward, inescapable difference.

You couldn't tell it yet in Rogue if you weren't looking for it. Hank, with the keen eyes of a scientist and trained observer, could find those traits as easily as he could lift his hand. Not too long now, he thought, and others will start to notice.

Soon, Rogue would have to adapt to the stares and the attitudes. To the looks and the fear. Hank hoped he'd be able to help her through that.

Anyone looking at them was going to group them together. It was inescapable. To those looking on, they'd be linked forever. But that didn't mean that in the more personal world, he and Rogue would necessarily share something special too. Hank wasn't sure how that made him feel.

He thought about that night. What if it did mean something to her? What if he meant something to her? Stop it, he told himself. She was injured. She was vulnerable. The two of you shared a love of books. The moment happened. Nothing more. 

But as he stared at her, he knew. Even if he were nothing more to her, she had long since become something special to him.

  


* * *

  
Rogue's back hurt as she stood as straight as possible. For the tenth time, Logan measured her from shoulder to wrist. "Are you going to get the measurements right this time?" she hissed through her teeth.

"I'll get the measurements right, darlin' as soon as your arms stop going ape and growing on us."

"You know," she replied in a snit, "for a heterosexual, you take an awful lot of pleasure in working in fashion."

Logan shrugged. "Some got it. Some don't." He actually had the gall to smile as he added "And I've got it."

"Well, no big winged masks, if you don't mind..."

"Looks good on me," he sniffed. "For you, thought, I thought something a little more...covering...than Hank's rather understated number might do."

"Dammit, Logan, if you send me out there with nothing on but electric blue underpants...I swear I'll..."

"You'll what?"

Rogue could not think of anything on the spur of the moment, but her toothy grin assured Logan that she'd come up with something. And that what she'd come up with would be both memorable and unpleasant.

Logan nodded. "Point taken."

Getting fitted for her new suit was only one of the more minor details she had to deal with these days. And Logan, cretin though he was, had a way with Spandex that could not be matched. Unfortunately, he seemd to think that she owed him something for a series of heart-breaking novels she'd recently recommended. And that something she owed him was going to be paid back in spades.

A knock at the door made them both turn around. "May I come in?" Hank asked.

"Absolutely!" Rogue answered quickly. "Logan was just finishing. Weren't you, Logan?"

"Yes," Logan agreed--perhaps too readily. "I'll be back with your uniform later today. We'll see if it shows you to advantage." Rogue just managed to shoot back her best Southern Lady death-stare at Logan without Hank noticing.

"Are you free for lunch?" Hank asked.

"Why, yes, I am." she replied. "Got something special in mind?"

"I thought we might traipse back to that lovely coffee emporium. The one we spent time at, when we first started discussing books. I've begun to grow quite fond of the place. Associations and all, you see."

"Why, Sugar, I'd love to." The thought delighted her.

  
  
  
For some reason, two blue furry mutants did not seem to draw any more attention these days than one blue furry mutant accompanying a young pretty woman; even if one of the furry blue mutants had a large white streak in her fur. In fact, Rogue noticed as they walked, people seemed not to notice them much at all. Their eyes seemed to slip in a sort of mutant-repelling fashion directly over them onto more conventionally unfurrred folk. She and Hank seemed to walk in a bubble of privacy that nearly every passerby helped maintain. Oh, the children, they noticed. But their mothers, horrified, would always shush them and hurry away.

In fact, Rogue had begun to enjoy the covert stares. You could expect to see a mutant now and then in almost every big city--but a matched pair! Now that was something special.

As always Hank held out a chair for her to sit on, when they reached the restaurant. His gentlemanly behavior and gallantry strummed upon the most basic chords in her Southern soul. Absorbed personalities applauded him mentally as they lurked behind her eyes. As the two sat there in the bright afternoon sunlight, sipping their cappucinos, they chatted about work and books and friends.

And, as she'd been prone to do lately, she held out her hand. Hank took it in his. Even now, his hands dwarfed hers. Her large, clawed blue extremity seemed almost dainty in his. He smiled and kissed the back of her hand gently, but didn't let go.

Hank wasn't the only one who could touch her these days. The same fur that insulated and protected him now surrounded her. She could hug again. She could touch again. She was restored, however oddly, into the most basic socialization of humanity.

Funny, wasn't it, how an accident and a curse had become her salvation? No, she corrected herself, Hank had been her salvation. She smiled back at him with love.

Of course, her kiss remained deadly.

But what Southern Woman's kiss wasn't?

END

_Dedicated to VangieKitty.  
Please come back to us and write some more. Pretty please?_


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